I was thinking the other day that in the not-too-distant-future, geologically speaking, people will come think of me as old. Like really old.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and think, dude, what’s with all the wrinkles? Next time someone tells you to smile for the camera, don’t. Those goddam creases are so deep you could lose your keys in there.
However, I’m not yet ancient, despite my skin folds, and before you know it it’ll be 2164 and there I am at 200 years and still alive, in a manner of speaking. Part my own flesh and blood. Part reclaimed organs. Part robotics. Meanwhile, you’re dead. Ha! How la like me now?!
And the younger set – people barely past 100 – start tooling on me because I’m so ancient: “Look at that old wrinkly bastard!” Because by then my wrinkles will really be something to marvel at. The hurtful names would run the gamut:
- Wrinkles McVay
- Old Wrinkleface
- Mr. Wrinklepuss
- The wrinkly old bat who lives down the road
- Herr Wrinklehausen
- Sir Wrinklot
- That a-hole with all the wrinkles
- Senor Muchas Arrugas.
- McVay that wrinkled sonuvabitch!
- Old Fuzzy Wrinkleball
- Lieutenant McWrinkle
You can imagine that the list is practically endless. I will have learned to deal with it by the time I’m 200, attributing the ribbing from people literally half my age to sheer jealousy. Plus, I may not notice all the name-calling, since I’ll be sleeping a lot, I’m told. That’s what happens when you’re 200, which I will be in a little less than a century and a half.
Hard to imagine it’s going to happen so soon.